


Diamond Dogs

by petit_moineau



Series: Partout [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bipolar Disorder, F/M, Friendship is Magic, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petit_moineau/pseuds/petit_moineau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s four in the morning and I shouldn’t be here, but here I am.  Expensive booze and cheap thrills.<br/>I am drunk off him and he is wild for me.  It is not perfect.  But it is as good as the universe will allow someone like me.<br/>He knows better than to give me pretty words.  He just gives me more cocoa and a smile, which is kind of like love, in a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diamond Dogs

It’s four in the morning and I shouldn’t be here and I quit my job tonight and my dress is torn and my shoe is broken but here I am.  Expensive booze and cheap thrills.  Top-shelf boy and gutter girl.  To contribute to the party I have a bottle of Absolut Citron and a nice rack, and since this jacket is Azelma’s there’s probably some kind of drug in the pocket.  My fingers slip against a tiny plastic bag.  Yep.  MDMA.  Figures.

“ _Filthy whore.  You filthy, fucking whore.”_

_“Goddamn worthless.”_

_“You probably liked them looking at you, feeling you up, squeezing your tits, you disgusting cunt, dancing for money.”_

Sometimes the dirty talk is indistinguishable from the serious talk.  Maybe it’s the vodka.  We are violent.  We talk, sleep, sit, argue, fight, fuck like we’re going to war.  Maybe we are.

He wakes me up from the MDMA comedown because he found the text messages on my phone, even though my phone has a pass code.  Because he _would k_ now how to get around such things.  Handcuffs are silk neckties to him.

_“Who else is fucking you?  Is it this Jehan?  Calls you pretty, writes you fucking poetry about your eyes?  This faggot, this Enjolras, who calls you Ép or Ponine, or shitting Grantaire, calls you babe and honey?  Oh.  Wait.  You’re fucking Courfeyrac, because he always has it up for you.  Goddamn fucking whore.”_

In the morning there is coffee with whiskey and bruises and I go home.

\-----

“Who let you in here?!” Like a movie, I can’t help but clutch at my chest, feeling my heart thrum.  I shake myself all over to get rid of some of the water in my hair and shake off the adrenaline. 

Enjolras holds up coffee and a bag of pastries as a peace offering.  “You did, because you gave me a spare key,” he deadpans.  He squints and moves to step closer.  I spin around and shut the door to my room before he has a chance to.  Shit.  I throw on some clothes and peek around the corner, but he’s riffling through my kitchen for something or other, so I slap concealer over the bruise on my cheekbone.  Usually Montparnasse is very careful to never touch my face.  After all, it’s marketable.

Enjolras has brought croissants and lavender honey and hazelnut lattes.  I plant a huge kiss on his cheek.  “You are simply _divine,_ Enj, and if Grantaire ever lets you forget it or you have a bisexual awakening…” I give him a wink and he swats at me.

“You are ridiculous.  Why are we friends again?  Remind me.”  But he’s got a little bit of a smile.

“Because I am the only one who will edit your papers and read over your speeches without crying about what a horrific bore you are,” I take a big drink of the coffee that warms me to my bones.  Not that I need it.  It’s June.

“Ah, right,” he chuckles.  “Hey, where’s the TV? I was going to watch the news.”

“Sold it,” I shrug.  “Wanted to buy a birthday present for Gav, and I quit my job last night.”

Enjolras, who is never rattled, never surprised, actually chokes on his latte, sets down his croissant, and stares.  “You…quit your job.”

“Yeah…?”

"Why?" he asks carefully. Enjolras is all for women in the sex industry, and I guess burlesque technically is, but he's never been fond of my boss. He's always militantly hated my boss. Sure, the guy takes a little too much off the top, but I've always wondered if it's personal. So I say something vague about how yes, I'm tired of Claquesous taking too much off the top and I can make more somewhere else, and the museum is offering more hours so maybe I'll do that instead, I don't have to work two jobs for the rest of my life, right? I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Suddenly he’s thrown his arm around my shoulders in a most un-Enjolras-like fashion.  “Ép, that’s incredible! That’s amazing! Congratulations.”  He gives my shoulders a squeeze, and I can’t help it.  I grit my teeth and hiss because he’s pressing _right there,_ over this _massive_ bruise.  I just have to cross my fingers he doesn’t notice.

He does.

His hands go to my shoulders and upper arms—god _damn_ he has a knack for finding cuts and cruises—and turns me to face him.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  It’s a reflex, like biting the skin on my knuckles.

“Éponine.”

Like right now.  My knuckles look terrible, but it helps, somehow.

_“Éponine.”_

Why am I moving so slow today?  I’m just about to say something, it’s right there on the tip of my tongue with the leftover vodka and the bitter MDMA and the latte and honeyed croissant when his thumb pushes over the shoulder of my shirt.  Bruises.  Bruises galore, because honestly, why the fuck not?

“You went back to Montparnasse.”  His voice is a deadly and dangerous growl.

I meet his eyes, and they’re an angry shade of black-blue usually reserved for protests and professors.  “So what if I did? Ain’t your fucking business, is it?”  He looks surprised, and I’m not totally sure what made me lash out like that.  Maybe because I am so fucking _tired,_ but I keep going and throw out all the stops.  “And yeah, I quit my job, and isn’t that just shitting wonderful, because now I will have absolutely _no_ way to pay my bills or buy my groceries or take care of my brother without fucking _selling my possessions,_ but at least I’m not dancing in a club, right?”

“Éponine, I—“

“Maybe now that I don’t have a job at all, maybe I will _finally_ get your approval, am I right?!”

“Éponine, we love you, you know that’s not—“

“ _No,_ Enjolras, what’s not cunting fair is that I’ve had to work so damn hard for absolute shit.”

“For Christ’s sake, Éponine, please—“

“Please leave.”  And in that split second of silence, I realize that my chest is heaving and my throat hurts from screaming and my face feels vaguely wet.  I have absolutely no idea why I’m so hysterical but I’m eighty-nine percent sure I’m a bad comment away from having a meltdown and I’d just as soon do it by myself.

For his part, Enjolras looks one part severely pissed and one part borderline terrified, which would be hilarious if the situation were different.  But he stands up with that fucking perfect grace he has.  “Okay.  Okay, Ép.  Okay.  Listen, I, uh…”

He’s short of words.  Outstanding.  I have rendered him incapable of speech.

“Yeah,” he finishes lamely, grabbing what’s left of his breakfast and making his way toward the door.  “Hope you…feel better.”

The shock of stillness makes my ears ring and suddenly there is nothing more offensive than the sight of Enjolras’ stupid coffee mug that he has left on my table for God knows how long and I’m pretty sure it’s actually Grantaire’s mug that he’s stolen.

There has probably never been a sound more satisfying in the history of satisfying sounds as the resounding noise of it shattering against the wall.

\-----

It’s June and it’s sweltering and the day is glittering and the breeze tickles and my lungs fill with electric summer air and I am fucking _alive._

And there is a large body blocking my sun.  “Fancy seeing you here.”

I sit up.   “Bee in your bonnet, Jamie?”

Courfeyrac looks distinctly… _displeased._ I scoot over and smooth my dress over my knees.  It used to be baby blue all over, but I saved it from an untimely death at a thrift store and patched it with other blues, scraps of whatever I could find in the heap at the bottom of my closet.

He sits down next to me with a heavy thump.  “Where have you been for the past two weeks?”

I glare at him, pushing my sunglasses down.  “So I felt like having some space from Les Amis, is that a crime?”

“It is if you’re back with your abusive boyfriend and you quit your job and none of us know where you are and you’re never in your apartment,” he deadpans.

I dig in my pocket.  “Cigarette?”

“What?”

I inhale and hold, savoring the acrid, minty burn before blowing a ring.  “I’ve been at my apartment, just not when anyone’s stopped by.  Enjoying the summer air, you know?”

“Ponine, it’s like, 94 degrees out.”

“And you only live once.”

He glares at me.  “Please just tell me you’re okay.”

Actually, I feel fucking _fantastic._   Like, really, really good.  MDMA-overload good, except I know I haven’t done drugs since that night at Parnasse’s.   I’ve felt like I’ve been flying the past week, but I chalked it up to quitting my job.  “Seriously, I’m good, James.”  He makes an unholy face at me calling him that, but I ignore him.  “Really, really good.  I quit my job, and I’m looking for something that’s better, and look!” I hold out my arm for his inspection.  “No bruises.  No Montparnasse.  I promise I’m done, okay?  I had a bad night, I made bad decisions, but I swear on my life—“ or on the pinky I hold out as a peace offering “—that I will not darken the doors of his apartment under pain of death.”

He snorts and locks pinkies.  “You are such a drama queen.”

I tug at his hand.  There’s a busker across the way playing a mean guitar solo with one of those things attached that lets him play the harmonica without any hands.  “Dance with me.”

He snatches the cigarette out of my mouth and takes a drag.  “Why should I?”

I take my cigarette back and kiss his cheek.  “Because we are alive, Courf, and I feel like dancing.”  With a grin, I win him over.  Courfeyrac goes to talk to the dude with the guitar and comes back with a wicked gleam in his eyes.  “What’ve you done?” I sing.

“You’ll see,” he sings right back, twirling me around.

Guitar Dude whips into a one-man rendition of I Was Made To Love Her.  I burst out in wild laughter.  “I fucking love Stevie Wonder.”

Courf dips me easily.  “I fucking know, and I fucking like you, and you’re in such a fucking good mood, so it seemed fucking necessary.”

I’m cackling now.  “So much fucking, monsieur, for shame, we’re in public!”  He spins me tightly and I tilt my head back, keeping my eyes open and watching the world go by like a kaleidoscopic carousel exploding with color.

In the hazy heat of my dim apartment his teeth worship my neck.  His tongue licks up my sides like a wildfire.  I am drunk off him and he is wild for me.  It is not perfect.  But it is as good as the universe will allow someone like me.

\-----

Éponine is prone to dropping off the face of the earth so at first they’re not worried, especially when Courfeyrac makes the positive report that she’s just been enjoying being alive, she’s not gone back to Montparnasse, and she’s not on one of her terrifying depressive jags.  But when it’s been a week after Courfeyrac saw her and nobody can find her, Les Amis start going on missions to Éponine’s usual haunts to intercept her because she’ll no longer answer her phone and always has the deadbolt chain over the door in her apartment.

It’s by total chance that Grantaire passes by her apartment building.  He can tell she’s home before he even gets down the hallway because she is _blaring_ Lana Del Rey and he’s confused because she doesn’t even _like_ Lana Del Rey, but the closer he gets the more he can hear Éponine’s strangled-cat singing along with Lana’s sleazy lounge-singer voice.  He pushes the door ajar without her noticing and he instantly knows it’s bad.  Her curly hair is matted and straggly and standing on end.  She’s in her underwear and one of her old t-shirts from high school and she’s waltzing with a bottle of Absolut Citron, which he can smell clear across the room.  He turns Lana down a few notches and she spins around.  He can’t help the sound that comes out of his mouth.  “Oh, Éponine, honey…”

She’s been crying at some point because there are streaks of days-old heavy eye makeup down her face.  She smells like a distillery and there are angry, perfectly executed crosshatches of microcuts on her thighs.  The bottle slips out of her hand in surprise, but it bounces on the rug and miraculously doesn’t shatter.  He steps toward her slowly and she doesn’t move.  He opens his arms, silently asking permission to touch her.  She shuffles forward a millimeter and permits it.  He swallows her gently, tucking his chin atop her head.  His nose wrinkles involuntarily as he wonders when she last washed her hair.  She is trembling almost imperceptibly, but the longer they stand there in the stifling heat of her apartment with Lana wailing away in the background, the tremors turn into full on shakes. 

He eases her onto the couch and her nameless, scraggly gray cat twines itself around Grantaire’s legs.  He takes Éponine’s face in his hands and pushes her sweaty hair off her forehead.  Her eyes are misty with tears.  “What’s wrong?”  He’s known Éponine since high school.  They smoked cigarettes and snuck whiskey and hated the world together.  What he always admired about her, though, was that she had this secret hellbent fire driving her to get up, get out of the slums, make something of herself, do something, even if it was shit, so that at least she’d be on her own.  He’s seen her go through cycles like this, but it’s been a while since one was so bad.

She bites on her bloodied lip and snaps the hair elastic against her raw wrist.  “How do I make it stop, R?”

“Make what stop, babe?”

She shudders and draws her bony knees up to her chest.  “Everything hurts and I don’t know why, I don’t know why, how do I take the pain away, R?  Make it go away.”

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he kisses her cheek.  This is worse than he thought.  “Okay, Ponine.  I promise I’ll try.  Let’s get you to the shower and I’ll clean up and make you something to eat, okay?”  She nods, still shivering.  He takes her hand and gently pulls the hair elastic off her wrist.  “Please, Ponine, don’t hurt yourself in there, okay?  We’ll figure something out, just like we used to, and it’ll be okay.  Just don’t hurt yourself anymore, okay?”  She nods once and picks herself up.

Grantaire’s first order of business is to feed Éponine’s cat, because by the looks of it, the thing hasn’t been fed in a few days, or however long it’s been since this bender started.  After that, though, he’s a bit lost.  Tidying her apartment is a given, and he knows how to boil water for tea, but she has absolutely no food that’s fit to eat, and he knows that something is _very, very_ wrong.  He fires off a text to Courfeyrac instructing him to get over pronto and bring food, no alcohol, and strong coffee.

\-----

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but please don’t leave me alone.”

\-----

They sleep curled around her, protecting her from anything that could harm her from the outside, unable to protect her from the inside.  Courfeyrac wraps his arms around her and curves around her back.  Grantaire somehow manages to fall asleep even though Éponine’s got her nose stuck in his hair.  They shuffle her into leggings and one of Courfeyrac’s shirts and manage to get her to swallow a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and march her like sentries down to a walk-in clinic that will accept someone who doesn’t have health insurance.  Two hours later she walks out with a differential diagnosis of bipolar disorder and a bottle each of trapezoidal green pills and oblong white ones.

“It makes so much sense,” Courfeyrac breathes.  “I knew she was weirdly happy and it wasn’t right but I didn’t know about her losing her piss at Enj.”

“I just don’t get why I never saw it before,” Grantaire grumbles, annoyed.  “She’s been like this for as long as I can remember.

“Let’s just hope this works.”

“Better to hope she actually takes the pills instead of flushing them down the toilet.”

\-----

I’ve made the decision that I’m not going to tell everyone I know carte-blanche about being bipolar.  They’d never take me seriously again.  But I do want to tell Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and it's easier to tell them both at the same time.  I’m perfectly capable of knocking on the door or picking up my phone to call someone to let me in.  Instead I’m sitting on the fire escape with Courf outside Enjolras’ window.  In hindsight this is a bad idea because it’s starting to rain, we're out of cigarettes, and we have no idea where Enjolras is.

When he flips on his light who-knows-how-much-later, he nearly hemorrhages.  And the look on his face is absolutely, completely enough to make up for being drenched to the bone.

And I sit on Enjolras' floor and drink hot cocoa and tell them everything.

I tell them about what it was like for me growing up, how we lost it all.  How my parents literally openly doted on Azelma and never at any time gave a fuck about Gavroche.  How I spent hours in the art museums because they were clean and quiet and a world unto themselves, which is how I ended up where I am now.

Then I talk about myself, which is harder.

Courf holds my hand.  It's kind of nice.  We fit well.  His hands are big and his fingers are bony.

He knows better than to give me pretty words.  He just gives me more cocoa and a smile, which is kind of like love, in a way.

**Author's Note:**

> All the bonus points if you catch the Next to Normal reference (hint: it's not that she has bipolar disorder)!  
> So, yeah. This was hard for me to write. It was hard because I have clinical depression and I know how debilitating and scary the lows can be, especially since the lows can come out of absolute fucking nowhere. It was also hard because my headcanon of a modern!Ponine involves her being sort of abusive sometimes, lashing out at people and losing her head, and I know so many people put Eponine on a pedestal, so I kind of worry about what the reaction will be, but this ended up being one of my favorite things I've written.  
> Two more are in the works and will be up soon!  
> You are all so lovely and if you were in front of me I would kiss you on the face. xxx  
> I love to hear from you, and I have tumblr now so come visit me at wineandvines and say hello/drop me a prompt/fangirl/whatever :)


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